


Each to Each

by Yustiel



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 14:24:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13168803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yustiel/pseuds/Yustiel
Summary: “Isn't this pathetic?” It croons, weaving its hands into his hair. “The great phantom thief, begging for fragments of a ghost.”Akira seeks comfort from a dead boy and his doppelganger.





	Each to Each

**Author's Note:**

> I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.  
> I do not think that they will sing to me.

Akechi is dead, he knows this. But the shadow speaks in his voice, welcomes him with his arms, so Akira does not resist.

 

* * *

 

 

The bus seats are just as ugly as he remembers; the water's reflection mottle them ever further. Perhaps this is one of those trains that crashed, Akira thinks. Perhaps the driver is psychotic.

Akechi sits across from him, poised as ever. He watches the world outside pass with mild interest; legs crossed, chin in his hands—but his eyes are too glossy and golden to be lost in thought.

“I think you have a bit of a complex,” Akechi announces. The seats are entirely empty save for them. “What do they say again? Adversity breeds strange bedfellows?”

“Makes,” Akira corrects him. “Adversity makes strange bedfellows.” Akechi laughs a little at that, part amusement, part disdain.

“And absence makes the heart grow fonder. So the greater the distance, the greater the longing, correct?” A stubborn silence. “See, you wouldn't give me a second thought if I were still alive. I know you too well for that, Joker.”

“You're wrong.”

“And yet you're here, aren't you? Thinking about me, dreaming about me. Replaying those last moments in your head. I can picture it now, _‘If only I had reached out more! If only I had made the effort!’”_ He laughed again, that passive, placating sound. “But if I were still around, well….” The shadow shrugged.

“I'm just trying to sleep in peace.”

“Oh, I have a remedy for that. A melatonin before bed on the good days, something stronger for the bad. And if you're lucky, you won't even remember the evening before. And if you're not—well,” he shrugged. “It's a good thing you didn't eat much last night.”

“Are you trying to make me pity you? Your acting is usually better than this.”

“Well, you wouldn't be here if it wasn't working.”

“If you love it, let it go,” Akira quotes at him. It's futile, they both know it. The waters glisten enticingly in the sun, projecting their reflection across crests and waves.

“I'm afraid I can't return to you this time.” He crosses, uncrosses, recrosses his legs. Pauses to stare out the window, expression enigmatic. “I wouldn't have let you free.” His voice is barely a whisper, yet Akira hears it easily over the engine’s hum. “I know you wouldn't have come back.” It's the barest hint of sincerity, the smallest crack in the pavement. He wants to reach out, to grasp it, to strangle it in his hands so it'll never dream about hiding again, to display it in a jar and dissect it like a specimen, to-

“Akechi,” he starts.

The train smashes into the wall of the station.

 

 

He sleeps too soundly to be dreaming about the dead, Akira thinks. Morgana stirs awake beside him.

“I had an odd dream.”

“Oh?”

“The convenience store sushi came back,” Morgana shudders. “You need to buy more high-quality stuff next time!”

"I'll try to remember." His eyes are blurred, swollen with the remnants of sleep. His curtains waft in the noontime breeze.

"You've been sleeping an awful lot lately," he meows from the edge of the bed.

“Making up for lost time.”

Akira's surprised that a cat can make such a dismissive noise. Light trickles in from the window, annoyingly bright.

“Hey, Morgana,” keep your voice casual. “What happens to a persona if its owner dies?” He can feel the curious stare being leveled at him even as he feigns nonchalance. A pause before Morgana speaks.

“I've never heard of it, but…Hmm. Well, your persona is your true self, right? But some are shadows, like the ones we encounter in palaces..." He pauses, taps his chin with his tail. "I guess some just arise from the Metaverse and Mementos, like the ones you capture. There's still a lot we don't know about them. Why do you ask?"

"I was wondering if the shadows I capture ever belonged to someone." It's not a complete lie.

"I'm not sure. The ones you capture seem to be similar to each other, while ours are unique. Maybe ours are different because they come from us and not, well, mankind in general? Are you…thinking about something, Akira?”

“I want a bike,” he admits. “Like Makoto’s. Then I wouldn't have to spend so much time running around during palaces.”

“A bike would be cool, but you've always got me, remember?” 

"Bikes are better.”

"H-hey! Keep saying that and I won't drive you around anymore!" Despite Morgana’s protests,  the cat is easily placated with a scratch behind the ears.

“I’ve never even heard about Arsene before he became my persona. How's that possible, if he’s supposed to be me?”

“Well, personas are still affected by other people. It’s possible you just heard about him somewhere, and your will just took on his form.”

“So there's still a chance of getting a bike?”

“It doesn’t work like that! Quit thinking about bikes!”

The memory is slipping between the sutures of his skull already, like silk; soft and cool to the touch. There was something about – steel, and—the humming, and water, thick and viscous, and then even that’s gone as well, lost in the thick wool of his sheets. 

Akira watches the light strain desperately through the dusty curtains.

 

* * *

 

 

He stands in a field. The grass grows up to his ears; he can feel it brushing his jaw, tracing its fingers across his cheek. The white of Akechi’s shirt flashes before him, swallowed in the sea of greens and golds. He follows.

“You're fascinated,” Akechi starts. “With things out of your reach. Isn't that the fun of it?"

“That's not true,” Akira calls out, but he already knows the words will fall on deaf ears.

“You could have anyone you wanted, after all. We've both seen the way they look at you. Ann, Makoto, Haru, hell, Yusuke and Ryuji too; Takemi, Hifumi, Futaba, anybody!” The roots reach up to trip his feet in thick tangles, the distance between them grows.

“Did you think you could forgive me? That your acceptance would heal me? I'm afraid you've been watching too many cartoons, Joker. Life doesn't work that way.”

“Akechi,” he tries to keep his voice even, emotionless, but the quiver is still evident. "Akechi," he calls. “If you want to talk, then wait up.”

“Joker,” he says. Something drips to the ground; his face in bright profile. “It's lovely here, isn't it? Like an endless summer." Black splatter marks swallowed by the grass. "Like paradise, right? You really think I belong here? After what I've done?” A flicker of unease; apprehension.

“I was never one for religion.”

“It's more mythology than religion, isn't it?” It's silent, he realizes. There are no birds, no cicadas, nothing calling in the breeze. “That's what happens when you’re forgotten. You become a fairy tale.”

_Don't turn around. Don't turn around._

“Are you worried I'll forget you?” He asks. It seems redundant to even express in words.

“You can't forget what you never really knew, can you?” He speaks in that irritatingly pleasing sing-song of his. “Joker, what did you think we were? I can count our conversations on one hand.”

“You're just exaggerating now.” It's not hot, not even warm. The sun, the sky, the grass all scream summer, but the light is almost cold upon his skin. It hangs too high to be anything but.

When the shadow speaks again, it is from a distance. “Recount them to me.” When had he started moving again?

“That day we met, at the TV station. Our back-and-forth.”  
He feels a bit like Alice, chasing the white rabbit to who knows where. Walking straight into a bad decision. Might as well hang _eat me! drink me!_ signs around his neck; perhaps it'd save time.

“Ah yes, nothing says intimate like being broadcast to thousands, live.” The grass is like tiny needles, pinpricks against every inch of exposed skin. “One on one. How many times did we talk?”

It takes him longer than expected to reply. “At Leblanc. You told me about your mother.”

“Right after I rubbed in what I did to Futaba’s. She was there, remember? Try again.” He should've taken Ryuji up on those after school practices—the voice rises and falls in some distant cadence, no matter how fast he runs. It matches him step for step.

Akira has to pause before responding. The shadow seems to delight from this.

“You came back to Leblanc, a week or two later.”

“Ha!” Akechi barks a sharp, short bark of laughter, authentic in the worst way possible. “Sojiro knew me better than you ever did. You're a barista, aren't you? What's my favorite drink?”

“…House blend.” A shot in the dark.

“Wrong." And a miss. "I like it sweeter, actually. Is that surprising?”

Akira ignores the pitfall of a question entirely. “Maybe I would've figured out,” he calls out in between breaths. “If you hadn't ran every time I came back.”

The grass ahead of him still. The silence simmers.

“Remember what you said to me?” His voice is low, inviting, dangerously so. “Say it again.” Low bubbles of heat in his throat, feather-light. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

He doesn't want to remember. He wants to deny he played any part in it, denies that he was tied up in this fate, that he had any role here. _It's not my fault._ What happened to you. _But I-_  
The silence threatens to boil over, so he speaks before the words spill out his own mouth.

“Please leave,” he says, half in and half out. “I don't want to see you here. I don't want to see you at all. You're not welcome here, don't you know? You're not-”

His voice rings out across the grass empty, unheard.

 

* * *

 

 

"It's nothing, Morgana. I'm probably just hitting another growth spurt, or something."

"Are you sure? You don't usually sleep this long."

"I don't usually have this much time to," Akira says. Morgana seems to agree, admitting defeat with a flick of his ears. "Aren't you glad I'm finally going to bed on time?"

"Yeah, but it feels weird! Usually it takes half an hour before you even get off your phone, and now you're just in bed by eleven, sharp."

"I'm turning over a new leaf. From now on, I'm going to study in advance, do all my homework on time, and join Shujin's swimming team."

"Eugh, don't even pretend. You don't even have a swimming team." Morgana settles deeper into his book-bag, straining the weight against his shoulder. The rain patters steadily against his umbrella as he steps out of the subways and back onto familiar streets. Despite the weather, the place is still humming with Monday's resentment, still full of cigarettes cupped against cold palms.

There's an alley, he knows, down by the bookstore in the square, where a gap between buildings exists. And there's a space behind that, under an awning, and piles of discard, with just enough space for a boy and his phone to disappear.

"Tell me when it stops raining," Morgana meows from inside the bag, and Akira steps back underground.

 

* * *

 

 

What had Kawakami said? That you can't trust birds with black eyes? Well, you can't trust boys with red ones, either.

He sees a flash of red and gold out of the corner of his vision; his feet are already moving before the others realize he's gone. _Bad Idea_ emblazoned behind his eyelids like a Vegas Strip sign, chasing dreams and demons. He's got minutes, five at best, before they notice his disappearance.  This is dumb. It could be anything. It won't be him.

" _Go_ ," Arsene says. He takes off.

They can’t hear his footsteps over the wailing of the engines; they’re busy scolding each other for reckless mistakes and forgetful moves and here he is, walking straight into an ambush. The irony would've been evident if the urgency wasn't smothering it whole.

The air beats red with heavy hands and stagnant air. The heat trails of trains pass, evaporating like voices on the wind, all calling his name; his mistakes lain bare. Write this one down, too.

The cavern is gaping, empty in monotony.

A figure across the tracks.

"You're dead," is all he says, all he needs to say. It smiles, obviously pleased to see him.

"Long time no see.”

"How are you here?" It's not shock, it bubbles too lightly on his skin to be shock. "You _died._ " It almost seems personal—his presence, the peeling paint flaking in the air, the roughened and rusted metal underneath his feet. All for his sake.

“Why are you here?”

"You chased me down. You left your friends behind to come find me. Did you miss me, Joker?"

It isn't shock at all, because he's not surprised. He's been anticipating this encounter, dreaming about reunion. About revenge, really. Second chances for the worst reasons.

"I don't miss you. Nobody does, Akechi. You killed me. Wh-why would we miss you?" He hates the stutter in his voice, but he tenses with every pulse of the light. In the illumination of passing headlights, its whites look pink; its reds look black. Maybe they are. "You—aren't our friend."

It waits, as if expecting an elaboration, or another explanation—and infuriatingly, Akira's throat aches to give it one. Anticipation, building, like a roar.

_What are you-_

No.

_How did-_

No.

_Is that you-_

No, no, no!

Nothing squirms up his lungs, claws through his larynx, wrings itself through to his tongue. His hands shake, worry and excitement and anger swirling in his veins.

It moves to speak.

"Joker! Where'd you run off to, dude?"

"Did you get eaten by a shadow?"

Akira turns his head to the noise, instinctively, impulsively.

Truth is a beast of prey, he knows; sight exists to cripple its flight. There is no figure when Akira remembers to look back.

 

* * *

 

 

He dreams about Arsene, smiling back at him with his reversed-inverse face, all gums and chapped lips and plaque, shining whiter than white on his teeth.

“ _Don’t forget_ ,” Arsene says. That’s right—that first day, in Shibuya. That was him, wasn’t it? In the fire, grimace and everything. With his face, in his uniform. Even before he'd known.

" _You always knew_ ," Arsene says. That's right—don't lie to yourself. Even a beast recognizes itself in the mirror. This is you.

He blinks, and he feels the smile pressing against his own lips as well.

 

* * *

 

 

Bad habits slip into your bed like a welcome guest.

He tells himself he doesn't mean to go back. It's for the sake of a request—some burglaries, some bullying, some marital or money issues. And-Ryuji would be busy, anyways. Makoto has to study. Yusuke is still at school, and bus fare is expensive these days. So—so, it makes sense to go alone, doesn't it? It's for convenience. He's doing them all a favor.

Right?

" _Right,_ " Arsene whispers.

Try not to be disappointed in what you find.

It comes to watch him sometimes, like a beast pacing in his cage. There's always a faint sense of amusement, a note of derision, in the pink cast of its skin. Akira does not break the silence that settles like the ocean between them; no words of acceptance, of rejection, no questions, no answers.

It honors their treaty; its pupils swivel smoothly to follow Akira as he walks back and forth on the thin strip of platform, back and forth, back and forth.

 _"Is it really you?"_ He wants to ask, but the words are loud, profane, too sharp for the delicate skin of the silence.

And he knows the answer, anyways.

 

* * *

 

They go down quick.

He was careless, selfish, foolish; he played it too safe and wasted all his chances. Ann takes a hit he was too dizzy to dodge and goes down. Yusuke's slashes score his own skin. He sends Makoto away and watches his chances dwindle with every purr of the engine.

“Call on me,” it laughs, joyous, jubilant.

“Arsen-” Hand against his throat, violent this time. Manic laughter wrings its way out of his mouth, equal parts anxiety and excitement.

"Not him," it hisses. He can feel the crescent moon imprints as it presses its' nails against his skin; as it cradles his face in that terrible intimacy. "You need me." _I don't need anyon-_ "CALL MY NAME." Unbidden; choking, the word—the name—the _thought—_

 

_LOKI._

 

 

 

He feels fine. Great, really. Borderline blissful. Borderline blurry.

"Well?" Akechi asks.

_I feel-_

"You don't need to tell me."

_Is that-?_

"Yes. But I'll lend it to you."

"Joker! Are you okay?" Makoto, Haru, Ryuji, Morgana. They bind him back to the earth with shrill cries of concern. "Are there any left?"

Ann stirs, Yusuke groans. There is no sight of a boy with brown hair; no sight of a red, red blade.

"No," he says. "All the shadows are gone."

* * *

 

“Isn't this pathetic?” It croons, weaving its hands into his hair. “The great phantom thief, begging for fragments of a ghost.”

 _“_ I don't care,” he says. His head hangs heavy against the shadow's shoulder. "Let them think what they want."

He is so, so tired.  “Akechi- Loki, whatever you are.”

It would've been better if he never stopped to help. It would've been better if he could've turned a blind eye to all of it, if everything hadn't crushed him under the sheer _responsibility_ of it. The second he entered that castle, the second he heard that cry—he lost. Damocles’ sword straight through his goddamn neck. His duty, his purpose. They all piled their problems onto his shoulders and fled. Placated him with terms of 'leader.' Let him take the fall.

Maybe that's why he liked Akechi so much— because he didn't have to care about him. And no matter how much in need he was, he never called for help. Dying quietly. Tickets to the countryside. _How nice it must be_ , Akira thinks, _to be selfish_. How nice.

“I am thou, after all,” it recites it at him. “You always had a right to me.”

“A right?” He lifts his head to meet those eyes, blank as ever.

“It could've easily been you. Just imagine,” it traces its hands down his side, along his arms. “Maybe you didn't run into a cat that day.” Warm, welcoming. He leans into that voice. “Maybe you were left all alone, lost in the woods all by yourself. What would you have had?”

“A knife,” he offers unhelpfully. The shadow nods in agreement. “And my intentions.”

“It's Kamoshida that ended up lucky that day. Or else,..well. This was born out of your own heart.” It pauses, hesitant. It is a foreign look on his face; vulnerable. Human. “ _His_ own heart.”

How does it feel to have a part of yourself die? To watch yourself bleed out, and be powerless to help? What was he thinking then, consoling Akechi in his last moments, hearing those panicked gasps? What could you think?

“Akechi-” Akira reaches out. It snaps back to reality, back into gold; just a flash of black and white on mottled skin.

“Don't-!” It hisses, shoves him away. A feral haze in those bright wide eyes. “I don't need your sympathy! I don't-”

Draw your arm back. Catch him unaware. Send him reeling, hand to cheek, recoiling in shock.  Oh, it looks so much like _him_ —on the floor like this—it makes your heart hurt.

"You did this to yourself. You killed Okumura, you killed Wakaba, you killed yourself. I won't feel sorry for you."

Pause. Then-

"Hah!" The cut fades. Dead boys don't bleed. "You're right. I never intended to survive. Not since Wakaba, not when I stepped into that ark, not now." It's nothing he didn't know before, but the words still brush against his skin like so many nails. It smiles, all charm and charisma and prime time weekend TV special. "But you're taking quite a risk to come see me like this."

"You'll protect me, won't you?" It's foolish to be in Mementos like this; more foolish to do so alone, far more foolish for a shadow. And yet, he's here isn't he? And all—for what sake? Who's sake?

"From the sea of thy soul." It says. "I come to thee." That's right. That's all it is. A shadow. But still—

"I don't care. From my soul, or another's. Stay with me." Akira says, inviting and dismissive all at once.

"That's not up to me, is it?"

"It wasn't a request." Mirth and callous approval. You're acting just as he would. "You're not me," Akira says.

It smiles back as it reaches for his outstretched hand.

 

* * *

 

 

It's not Sae or Makoto or even Futaba that mentions him first; it's Sojiro, polishing his glasses against the countertop.

“What happened to that boy, anyways?” He asks. “I still can't believe all that happened.”

Akira looks down at his magazine. _An admission of fault and a Latin phrase._ Eight spaces, across.

“He-” Confession? No, that was too long. “-disappeared.” Admittance? That wasn't Latin, was it? “I don't think we'll be seeing him again.”

“He took off, huh? Probably for the best. I still can't believe he was involved in all…that. He seemed so well behaved before. Told me he wanted to study abroad after this year.” Latin, Latin, what was in Latin? _Sic iubeo? Memento mori?_

“I doubt he'll be going anywhere now.”

Sojiro understands, of course. The pointed way he keeps his eyes fixed on the paper. Lines like tally marks against the page. The indent of his pen nib leaking ink through the thin sheets. “My mistake. I won't bring it up again.” He should be the one apologizing to Sojiro, but…

 _M-y m-i-s-t-a-k-e._ Too long. He puts the paper down.

“Hey, Sojiro,” maybe asking is too suspicious. Too obvious. Do it anyways. “What was his favorite drink?”

“Macchiato, with whip cream on top. Why do you ask?”

“What's an eight-letter phrase for a Latin confession?”

“Huh? Why do you need that?” Sojiro stops, pauses, scratches the back of his neck. "Oh yeah, the crossword. No idea. Just wait for the answer sheet tomorrow.”

 _A popular, light-colored drink featuring foam._ "Never mind, I know what it is anyways."

“Hmph. Put it away when you're done, okay?”

“I'll be sure to.”

 

He’s let yet another bad habit in lately. Morgana manages to corner him when he's busy washing dishes and kindly points it out.

“It’s rude to not look people in the eye when they're talking to you, y’know,” he grumbles from the countertop.

“And it's rude to stand on counters, and yet…” he would've gestured if his hands weren't dripping.

“H-hey, that doesn't count! Anyways, that's not the point. You've been going off into Mementos without me, haven't you?”

Akira rehearses his best “ _What, me?”_ and “ _You must be mistaken.”_ Maybe he should clutch his breast for dramatic effect. Claim he's come down with a case of the vapors.

“Don't try denying it. I asked the others and they haven't been hanging out with you either.” Such an indignant meow.

“You caught me. I've been going to the maid café every day.” He scrapes the leftover rice into the trash.

“This is serious, Joker! You could get injured or killed out there! Don't you understand?”

Yes, of course he understands! If this were anyone else, he’d be just as annoyed. _How dare you?_ He’d say. _Putting yourself at risk? Don't you understand that we're a team here?_ But this is different, after all. He's their leader! Yet here they are, snapping at his heels like hounds. Why couldn't they just _leave-him- alone_?

“Joker! Don't ignore me!” He's tired of thinking of excuses; sanding the edges dull. Maybe he likes the hangnails and the sore throats, the scabbed knees and paper-cuts. 

“I wanted to be alone,” he says.

“What? Can't you do that somewhere else?!”

“I like the ambiance.” It's not as bad as admitting the truth.  _I’m seeing a dead boy._

A speck of burnt curry sticks to the plate. “Take this seriously!” He picks at it with his nail. “Joker! Are you listening to me?!”

Loki’s presence like a finger on his neck, fighting to hold back a humorless laugh. His mind is elsewhere, his hands are busy. Akira lifts the plate up to the light to check for any remaining residue. “I'm listening,” he says. “But you're wasting your breath.”

“Quit being selfish!”

The word of the day is INFURIATING.

He sets the plate down with unnecessary care; exaggerated precision; it helps him claw the words back down his throat. “Drop it, Morgana,” he says.

Morgana bristles, but admits defeat. “I'm telling the others.” Fine. “I'm going out for a walk.” Have a nice night. “I _might_ be back in the morning.” Goodnight, then. He stalks off in the direction of Sojiro’s house, no doubt to inform Futaba of Akira’s denseness. So what? Let them talk.

Akira places the dishes on the drying rack, wipes the counters, hangs the towels up to dry. He goes to sleep thinking about train stations and dreams of nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

He hardly takes a step into Mementos before he hears them speak.

“ _He had a point. This is dangerous_ ,” Arsene tells him, as if he had any intention of stopping.

Akira shrugs, ignores the agreement. “Visit me outside the Metaverse, then.”

“You wouldn't want me there,”  Loki adds. And yet, it's pleased- he's pleased. It's comforting. Like sun on his skin.

"I wanted to see you,” Akira confesses. Saying it aloud seems ridiculous; fantastical. But he's talking to himself, anyways. A little sentimentality never hurt the delusion any.

Akechi takes his hand. His gloves are warm.

“I'm here,” he says.

 

Akira brings his homework.

It's ridiculous, he thinks—using the subconscious of humankind to study for a history test. But his test is next Tuesday, after all, and he _is_ a student still.

_What were the knights of the round searching for?_

"The True Cross," Akechi adds.

"Thanks." The gloves make it hard to hold his pencil, annoyingly.

_The city-state structure began declining in which century?_

Akechi shrugs. "I didn't pay much attention in history," he admits. "I did well in civics, of course." He sits in the rest stop seat next to Akira, spinning a pencil idly against his fingers.

Akira doesn't bother to hide his stares, this time. The suit is just as he remembers, every stitch and thread in its rightful place, every hue in its right intensity. The only difference is, of course, that Akechi no longer wears his mask.

"What?" he notices.

"You're surprisingly dexterous with your gloves on."

"I wear gloves regularly, remember?"

"I always wondered why."

He shrugs, returns his attention back to his borrowed pen. The silence is broken up by the rush and roar of incoming trains; as heavy as ever in Mementos' stale, lifeless air, but it doesn't bother him—not with the glass partition separating them from the rest of the world. It was different, down here. Things were fine and nobody had lied and they were the only ones to exist in this empty, empty world.

Things were fine. He never spoke harshly.

"You were right. I barely talked to you." That gets his attention. "I don't know the first thing about you. Your high school, where you lived, what you ordered at Leblanc. I never bothered to find out."

“You had your reasons. You knew I was hiding something from the start.”

“I never gave you a chance."

"Did I ever really deserve one? You said it best yourself—I'm the suspicious one, aren't I? I'm not welcome there. Not just there." He parrots Akira's words and they pierce him like the point of a hook.

"I've been wrong before." Their knees are brushing, arms side by side. The chair doesn't creak when he leans back.

"Not where it counts," Akechi tells him with a sly smile. "You're awfully forgiving, but what about Haru? What about Futaba? What would they say?"

It makes him pause. What would they say? No doubt, " _What are you doing?!"_ No doubt, _"How could you?"_ No doubt, _"Akira, what's wrong with you?"_

"They'd understand." He says. "That you were just a kid, too. You're a victim."

"Are you so sure?" No, he's not sure at all. He's not even sure if Haru ever truly forgave them. He's not sure if Futaba will ever recover from her mother’s death.

"But at least she has a chance to," Arsene says.

Akechi chuckles, a light, ringing sound. “The look on your face says it all.”

“Let’s get back to my history homework.”

He can feel the strands of Akechi’s hair ever so lightly brushing against his cheek. The soft weight of his body over Akira’s shoulder. Such a mundane thing, such a reassurance.

“Am I special to you?” Akechi asks, something vulnerable in that voice. The _of course_ and _yes, definitely_ fade off in his throat before they reach his lips at all. Don’t say _special,_ it's not enough. _Special_ isn't the right word.

"I'm here, aren't I?" _I’m not dreaming of anyone else._

“Nobody else died." The implication is as vivid as ever. "Is that it, then?"

"Don't put words in my mouth." Ah, but he knows, he knows, he knows. 

That melancholy expression, the bittersweet half-turn of the mouth, the faint twitching of those lashes—were so loudly infuriating all of a sudden, unbearably affectionate with no right.

"Stop that."

"What?"

"I said, _stop._ " Akira stands violently, the tails of his coat whipping in an arc. "Stop playing the victim, stop pretending you feel sorry, stop lying for _once_ in your _goddamn_ life!"

Akechi is still seated, weight shifted on one arm, head tilted to the side. The nonchalance is as frustrating as everything else about him.

"You thought you were so good—so much better than us; we all knew! You aren't—weren't—one of us, not ever!"

"I'm not," it says. "But I have you."

"You don't have me," Akira spits, but even a liar can recognize himself in the mirror. "Why didn't you just stay dead?" The anger is leeching through as fast as it struck, and incredulity rises, like milk foam on black coffee, to replace it. Here he is, screaming in a place that shouldn't exist, at a boy that's supposed to be dead.

Shoulda just minded your own business, huh. The bubbles of laughter dry in the mire of his larynx.

He slides back into the seat, ashamed, amused, embittered, rubbing the skin underneath his mask.

"Weren't your eyes darker?" Akira asks, for no reason other than to chase the old words away.

"Death changes you," Akechi replies, and the forgiveness is inferred.

 

* * *

 

 

They do, of course, end up finding him.

“Joker!” Akechi hears it first actually; jerks his head in their direction. If only it were chains instead.

"Gonna introduce me to your friends?" Akechi asks, unbothered. "Well, reintroduce." _Hey crew. I know hanging out with the half-crazed mind of a dead kid looks suspicious, but-_

Teeth clenched before he realizes. Words scrambling to the assembly lines. And yet, there's something like relief—something like graciousness. _Finally,_ it breathes.

"Get out," he mutters, to all of them. "I don't want them to see you." But Akechi is long, long gone, as if he was never here. And he wasn't.

He is alone, yet not alone enough.

The footsteps ring against concrete, thunderbolts striking the ground over. Color burning back from the corner over, staining his rose-red tinted world.

"Joker! What the hell are you doing?"

There's a thrumming, hurried rhythm, straining in the tendons of his heels. Electric potentials firing in unified panic.

“Where the fuck you’ve been, dude?”

Loki says “ _Are you going to take this?”_

Loki says “ _What have they ever done for you?”_

Loki says “ _Why should we deserve your kindness?”_

His head hurts. Heat coils at his fingertips, unbidden.

Loki says “ _Tell them what you think of me.”_

 _“_ Get out,” Akira says.

“What? But Joker,…”

“Get out, get out, GET OUT! Don't _ever_ tell me what to do. Don't EVER-" He clutches at his head.

"Joker! What's wrong with you?"

_"What's wrong with you?"_

His heart beats loud and violent in his skull, crowding his brain against the walls in every pulse. There's a taste like pond water and rusted handrails on his tongue.

Why did they have to _follow him?_ Couldn't they just let him have this? Why did they have to be here _now? Why, why, why?_

 He can't run, they'd easily outpace him. He can't hide, they've already found him. He can't fight—but he could.

Arsene says _"Play nice."_

 _“_ I’m sorry,” Akira says, taking a deep breath. “Please, just give me- give me a minute.” They won't leave him alone, but all he needs is a second. To talk. To collect himself and his selves.

“Joker, are you okay?”

“Please…” they send him worried, lingering stares and whisper with furrowed brows, but they give him his few seconds of respite. It'll hear him. That's okay, it'll hear him.

“I’ll come back,” he says, barely aloud. Mouthing the words like a mantra. _I’ll come back. I'll come back. I'll come back, I'll come back I'll come back, I'll-_

 _“_ Goodbye _,”_ it tells him.

 

* * *

 

 

“Akira, we need to talk.” Great, they’ve ambushed him on the way back from the baths, hair still dripping, glasses still foggy with steam.

“Let me put away my laundry.”

Makoto looks like she wants to protest. “Fine,” she sighs, and shoots a glance at Ann.

Y’know, there’s a window in his room. He could probably slip out from the panel atop his bed and hop out onto the roof. Then from there it’d only be a couple of feet to the awning overhanging Leblanc. He could totally make it from there to the roof of the international restaurant, and from there-

“Don’t even think about it,” Morgana hisses, winding his way around Akira’s legs as if to trip him. Great, okay. This’ll be the second most awkward talk of his life, right after the puberty talk. Here goes nothing.

Apparently, they've designated Makoto as leader in his absence, since they nervously glance at her to begin.

"Akira," she starts. "We're concerned for you."

"You've been going to Mementos alone! All the time!" Well. Morgana's skipping all the pleasantries, then. "And oversleeping!"

"We know it's been hard on you, and we're sorry," Makoto adds, gently pushing Morgana off the table. "But we're here for you, Akira. Whatever's troubling you-"

"Guys, I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm really fine." It doesn't even convince Ryuji, let alone the others.

"Ya freaked out, man. You were like two seconds away from blowing it."

"Ryuji does have a point," Yusuke chimes in. "You did appear rather distressed when we found you."

"I was just having a bad day."

"Akira..." Ann starts, puppy eyes and all. "You don't have to tell us what's bothering you. But we just want you to be safe." Would the truth hurt more, then? Even Futaba's here, nervously petting the top of Morgana's head. Haru shoots him sympathetic glances.

"Thanks," he says. "Sorry. It was dumb of me—I was just—I don't know."

"Hey, I get it, man. Shit happens." Ryuji places a hand on his shoulder.  "You always got us, though." Here they are, coming in late on a Thursday evening just for his sake, and he returns the favor by lying directly in their face.

Better than the truth.

"I just wanted to get away from everything. I didn't know where else to go," he confesses. Either his dreams or Mementos. And it'd look even more suspicious if he slept all day.

"Promise us you won't go back alone? At least take Morgana," it feels bad to lie directly to Haru's face. It really does.

"I promise. Sorry to have worried all of you." He'll just have to make better excuses. "I won’t do it again.”

"Why were you down there?" She asks the question on everyone's lips.

_To catch regrets._

"To find what I'm missing," he says instead. "I keep feeling that it'll explain itself if I go back. There's something down there—you can feel it too, right?"

They nod in agreement, but not understanding.

 

* * *

 

 

The first excuse he gives them is Yoshida.

“There’s a rally today,” he tells Morgana, deliberately packing a clipboard and megaphone into his bag. "And we might get beef bowls afterwards."

"Ugh, I don't know how you stand it. They're so boring."

"It's politics."

"Fine, see you in a couple hours." He finds a familiar back alley, with just enough space for his purposes.

Akechi takes the megaphone from him, turns it over in his hands.

"There's nothing I want to say," he admits. "I've had my time with these. You're here to listen, that's enough."

Akira brings Morgana back a bag of convenience store chips, shrimp flavored.

The second excuse is Takemi.

"I'm taking her to the Ferris wheel, to relax. And no, you can't come."

"What?! Are you kidding me?!"

"She might think it's a date," Akira deliberates. "How'd she react if I brought a cat to a date? She'd probably be like, _'Oh, Akira, that's really weird...I won't be selling medicine to you anymore,'_ and then what will we do?"

"She is NOT gonna say that!"

"Fine, she'll be like _'Akira, is that...a cat? You brought a cat to our date?'"_

"It's not even a date! You don't even like her like that!"

"You know I love a woman with a medical degree."

"Oh my god! Fine! Have it your way!"

"I'll bring you a pastry; bye Morgana!"

Akira takes the sword, handle jagged and jarring in his hands. It drags on the floor, too heavy to wield, let alone carry.

"I've had a lot of practice," Akechi says. "But don't you think it's beautiful?"

It's inelegant, cumbersome. Firetruck red like a kid's toy, pointed in too many directions like a dying bramble. The hilt twists upon itself like pipe cleaners in the hands of a kindergartner.

"It is," Akira agrees.

He brings Morgana back a bag of caramel popcorn, jumbo-sized.

"Not to be rude," he says on the third time, "but I'm pretty sure bringing a cat into a church is sacrilege."

"You're not even religious," Morgana hisses. "You don't even go to pray!"

"It's the principle that matters."

"You're playing shogi!"

"And bringing you along would be cheating. Not to mention, I don't want to get kicked out by the priest."

“He doesn’t stay that late!”

“My karma is bad enough already, I don’t need to get smote because I smuggled a cat into a church.”

“It doesn’t! _Work! Like! That!_ ”

“I’ll bring you something if I grab food with Hifumi.”

“You can’t keep leaving me behind,” Morgana yowls. “I’m going stir crazy up in here!”

“Ask Futaba to make a video game you can play with paws.” And he's gone as well.

“They’re going to find out eventually,” Akechi greets him, with undue warmth and welcome. Undeserved and unwanted, just like their speaker.  “You can’t lead them on forever.”

“I’ve been doing fine so far, haven’t I?”

"They've caught you once, already. Don't think they'll forgive you a second time."

"Forgive me?" Maudlin. Cloying, nauseating, all of the iron and bells and the feeling of that damned white fabric—warm, still, against him. This is no sanctuary. "I'm their _leader;_ they'll do what I tell them to."

"My mistake, then," it admits, reaches out and entraps him within those arms. "I just want you to be safe." Like chains, like bars.

"Because you care about my health that much?"

"Because you're special to me, Joker." But _special_ is never quite the right word. Something about that voice, that concerned tone, that faked, genuine sincerity— _pisses him off._

"Don’t act like you—Shut up!" How dare he? How dare _it?_

"Akira-"

"Don't say that bullshit to me, you tried to _kill me_!" Wrench away from that grasp, shove it back; don't turn around to see the emotion play across that face.

It says nothing, the admittance in sordid silence.

"You're so fucking _selfish_ and _useless_ and you're—you're nothing but a _memory—_ a _shadow—!"_ This time, it's still here when he finishes speaking. It listens with head cocked, caught somewhere between acceptance and lovesickness, adoration clear in the crooks of its fingers.

"I was selfish," it approaches. "I did it all for my own sake. Because I wanted revenge." Step by step. "Isn't that why you liked me? You didn't have to care. My problems weren't yours to solve."

"Shido was!"

"Shido was more than that. Shido was a part of everything." Turn away from that cry, this time. Head straight home, greet your parents with an indifferent glance. "Do you want me gone, Akira?"

No.

"Yes," he says, the lie between them.

"Then don't come alone," it murmurs, too intimate to be excused. "And I won't seek you out again. That'll be the last you'll ever see of me."

He's got it all wrong, doesn’t he? All this time, he believed Robin Hood was the hero of justice, the valiant crusader, princely figure; it was never him. There was never that confidant, charming personality as there never was that cocky, headstrong one; no Crow, no Joker and no suite or deck of cards, and there were only ever children playing pretend in the playground of other's feelings.

God, it plucks the ripened fruit of his lie straight off the tree, snaps the stem with one easy flick of its wrist. _Fake,_ the fruit whispers as teeth split the skin. _Alone, you want to be alone; loved and alone, loved by them alone. Wanted, welcome; harsher, colder; warmer, kinder; feel less, know more,_ it sings. Alone and loved. Ignore their pains. Let it be excised from your consciousness as one would remove a tumor.

"Get out."

The word of the day is HELP ME.

 

* * *

 

 

It's malignant; it spreads first through his tissue and muscles, crawls through his lymph, slithers up to his head and curls in his nest of a brain. A poisoning in slow motion, no doubt, flooding his blood with bile and melancholia. It's hard to get the words out; his tongue is some languid, inaccurate beast, unwilling to cooperate with the one in his skull. Oddly restless, increasingly listless; he finds himself in Inokashira Park for no other reason than to be away from Leblanc.

Morgana notices, of course.

"You alright? You've been....out of it, lately."

“I’m fine,” he snaps, in the most pathetic attempt at normalcy possible.

“Do you want to-”

“No, I don’t want to talk about it. And I’m _trying_ to study here.” He gestures pointlessly at the papers piled on the table, none with any significance.

Morgana lashes his tail in helplessness and frustration.

Ann and Ryuji and Makoto notice, of course.

"What's got you so worked up?" Ryuji leans too far forwards in the chair, to an irritating angle of one hundred and thirty-seven degrees.

"Ryuji, be more considerate!" Ann chides him, in that hypocritically shrill tone of hers.

"I'm fine," is a statement rehearsed so much the flashed image has long burned onto the screen of his voice. "It's just—" mind scrabbling against the cliff face for leverage, "—my parents called. That's all."

"Oh shit, I'm sorry dude," Ryuji mutters, chagrined in sympathy. Ann rests a hand on his shoulder. Even Makoto bows to their shared understanding, the common thread of pain.

"I hope things get better for you soon," she says as they all step back from their sacred ground of suffering.

Yusuke and Futaba and Haru notice, of course.

Futaba cowers behind Yusuke, because she's always been a coward, and he's always been obtuse. Haru tries to ply him with expensive foreign coffees, because she's always tried to solve things with money.

"Akira, are you upset at us?" Yusuke begins, as subtle as a battering ram. "You've been avoiding us lately."

"Please don't be angry," Futaba squeaks.

"No, I've just been stressed lately."

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Haru adds, in her curdled-cream tone. She raises a hand, hesitates, returns it to her lap.

"No, no, I'll be fine. Just give me some time."

"Understood," Yusuke states, but Akira can see the questions flickering between them already. Whatever. They can ask each other, later. "Anything you need, just ask."

"It's just personal things. Don't worry about it." Futaba wrinkles her brow at that, and the _how-could-we-not-be-worried_ flits up into the air, unspoken, and evaporates like steam.

"Are you sure you're not angry?" She asks, but their footsteps sound in retreat.

 

* * *

 

 

He has to confront it—them—their mission, eventually. The thought knock on the gate of his tongue until they tumble out in their presence.

“It just—I don’t know. Seems unfair." He starts, pathetically.

Ann's lips are pursed in the plosive of a ' _perhaps'_ or ' _potentially'_ before Haru's voice cuts her off.

"No. Akechi might've been a victim of circumstance, but he chose to do what he did."

“Makoto-” he starts. It’ll look suspicious, but he is suspicious. “You knew him.”

“Yes,” she trails off, something akin to wariness in her tone, guarded as ever. “I wouldn’t say we were friends, but he was around Sae a decent amount for work.” She paused, hesitated to say anything more, shifted her bag nervously under her arm. “Akira….is this about him?”

“He died, Makoto. How can everyone just brush that off? He did—terrible things, but it—we could've too, we—we didn’t even kill Shido, so why did he—?” Clumsy, fumbling, the words couldn’t quite arrange themselves together. The thought tangles upon its own strings; struggles to pull itself into a solid shape.

Her gaze softened, and she seemed to understand—reaching out to brush his arm in a delicate gesture.

“You’re worried because it could’ve been us,” she offers. Useless, lovely guesses. He seizes the double-edged lifeline.

"Yes! Dying in a palace—and nobody knows! It's so-"

“He made his choice,” Haru speaks in a rapidly tempering voice. “We gave him the option and he turned it down, Akira. Don’t blame yourself for his death.”

“I’m not blaming myself,” the weakest protest imaginable. “It’s just that—dying at seventeen..."

Ryuji shifts against the chair, obviously uncomfortable. Ann bites her lip in hesitance. Even Yusuke looks away.

"It was...always a possibility. We all knew this," Makoto offers. "It wasn't us, Akira, it was Shido's fault."

"We were there, though. And I should've, I don't know, at least done something?"

"You did all you could."

"I told him that—I chased him off every time he came, I shouldn't have."

"Akira, you knew what he was going to do."

"But I should've known how bad things were—"

"All of this was his own fault! I don't care how bad he had it; he killed my father, Akira!" Haru's voice is loud, shocking, even to herself. She clutches her hand to her chest after her outburst, embarrassed. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

"Is this what's been bothering you?" Morgana meows, and all the eyes sharpen on him.

"Yes," no. "I'm sorry for bringing it up, Haru."

"No, no! It's my fault for losing my temper, I shouldn't have. You had a point, he shouldn't have died. Nobody should've."

"That won't be us," Ann interjects. "We'll win as long as we're together, no doubt."

"We gotcha back, Akira! Don't even worry about these things," Ryuji adds.

"We are rather formidable as a group," Yusuke says, and Morgana meows in support.

"You're right," he admits, concedes. "Sorry guys." Yet again, false assumptions pave shared ground. They offer smiles of support, reach out to brush against his shoulders or wrists.

And—most guiltily of all—it does nothing to convince him to stop.

 

* * *

 

 

The visits gnaw on him, like termites, through the wood of his conscience. The endearing becomes the irritating becomes the unbearable. The tails of his sentences are clipped, their throats collared, their mouths stuffed with bit.

The silence gathers cobwebs; Akechi flits like an unwanted thought at his side. Akira stops bringing his homework and starts hunting the subway's pests, calling commands in brusque tones, working until both of them are nearing exhaustion. Horns flicker near Akechi's head; the phantom patterns swim on his skin in alternating bands of black and white. Still, he obeys. Until collapse, he obeys.

"You take orders well," Akira speaks, intending for every word to strike. Akechi accepts the blow with a sordid smile, as he accepts all of Akira's wishes.

When he returns to collapse in bed, Arsene's contentment presses against his cerebellum, and he sleeps with hands twisted into fists. And yet, he returns. He always returns.

 

* * *

 

 

First, he notices the tapping, the steady three-beat rhythm of rubber hitting concrete. It takes him by surprise; incenses him.

"What are you doing?" He asks, and it stops to regard him.

"Spending time with you, I suppose."

The words hardly leave its mouth before he's lunging to take its throat in his hands; shoving until its head crashes the brick behind them. How dare it look at him and lie? How could it not put what he's thinking into words?

"What are _you_ doing?" It asks back, more with curiosity than anger. Confidant, unhurt, even now. That's right—there's no skull underneath that skin.

"You're not _restless_." Never, not once. Akechi was always stock-still and statuesque; _David_ composed for a live audience, and he never played with his pens, or twirled a lock of hair between his fingers, or rolled his head about his neck. No, he never did, but Akira did.

"I picked it up from you," it smiles at him. He tells himself _it's just a shadow, it's just a shadow, it's just a shadow_ — "But you want it to be me, don't you? You don't want to deal with the guilt."

"Don't tell _me_ what I want! You're a _murderer,_ you caused _all_ of this! If it wasn't for you, _none_ of this would've—!" Something slides and clicks and slots in its rightful place in the back of his head; a key fitted between the discs of his spine. The skin under his gloves is impossibly smooth, like river-polished rock.

It knows. It knows that he knows, and it's fine with it. Pleased, almost.

Akira speaks in a voice like a shiver.

"Macchiato isn't sweet," he says. "Sojiro told me that you ordered—You're not him. You're not even—"

"His," it finishes for him. "I'm not even his Loki. So, what does that make me?" It reaches out, brushes the side of his cheek with undue care. Even through the leather, Akira can feel the warmth. "Say it."

Even a fool knows himself in the mirror.

There's no Arsene to mediate, no voice of sensibility to run its hands down his ribs. There's nothing down here except him and the specter of a dead boy and the trains roaring by in calm certainty, and it's all his fault. Because he made it this way. It's all his fault, again.

Saying it would make it real. It's a paltry excuse, but the best he's got.

"It doesn't matter either way, does it? Say it for _me_." His hands are by his side, now. When had he let them go? When had it gotten so close? Why does he welcome it so, lean into it still?

"I made you," Akira breathes. "You're my shadow." And when it closes the distance and kisses him, he can feel the smile upon its lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I write super disjointed and ambiguously, so feel free to ask about anything. Assume all my works are tagged 'pretentious drivel.'


End file.
